Rubik Hearts
1190 Words
Dusk slipped in uninvited through the glass windows of the agency office, sneaking in like an unfinished memory.
The grey concrete floor reflected the orange light, and shelves filled with design magazines stood silently in the corners. Laughter from earlier in the day still lingered faintly in the air, but now only two figures remained: Tama and Raka.
Tama lounged on a navy-blue couch near the pantry, sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled to the elbows, faded blue jeans and dirty white sneakers—clean enough by his standards. His tall frame remained relaxed, one leg casually crossed over the other. His tousled brown hair looked like a storm of ideas left intentionally uncombed, as if creativity demanded a bit of chaos. On his right wrist, a small tattoo—an abstract shape resembling a compass and sea waves—peeked out faintly.
An open sketchbook rested on his lap, but the pencil only rolled slowly between his fingers, refusing to dance across the page.
“Bro,” Raka’s voice broke the silence, accompanied by the soft echo of lazy footsteps on concrete. He carried two takeaway coffee cups, their heat still clinging to the cardboard. He tossed one onto the table in front of Tama with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
“You realize you’ve said Reina’s name three times today?”
Tama looked up from his sketchbook, as if just remembering that the world still existed. His hazel eyes caught the spilled sunlight from the window, reflecting a soft green sheen. He smirked—a thin smile that felt more like defense than confession.
“No way. Twice, max.” His tone was light, but there was a subtle tension in his shoulders.
Raka exhaled sharply, then dropped into a wooden chair like a veteran actor slipping into a familiar scene. He popped the lid off his coffee and blew gently on the steam.
“Come on. Don’t deny it. I’ve known you for years. When a girl gets mentioned more than twice in one day, it usually means…”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Tama’s face—not just teasing now, but trying to peer past the curtain.
Tama cut him off, still wearing that trademark grin.
“It means she pissed me off during yesterday’s pitch. Not that I’ve been writing midnight poetry about her sitting across from me.”
Raka chuckled quietly, sipping his coffee, then nodded with mock agreement.
“Right. So it’s not because she sits up straight like a flagpole when clients talk nonsense? Not because her voice can go from calm to razor-sharp in two seconds? Or because she replies to every email with a period—never emojis?”
Tama laughed out loud, but something shifted behind his eyes. Like someone realizing they’d swum too far from shore without noticing.
“Periods are elegant, bro. Minimalist. Uncluttered.”
“And now you’re suddenly a punctuation purist?” Raka leaned back, watching his friend—usually a master of hiding behind humor.
“Just admit it, Tam. She reminds you of something, doesn’t she? Or… someone?”
This time, Tama didn’t respond right away. The pencil stilled in his fingers, pressing gently against the half-blank page. He inhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the sky now turning from orange to purplish grey.
“Not someone,” he said finally, voice low. “More like… a shadow of something I thought I’d already put to rest.”
---
They moved to the smoking balcony.
The city moved below like a current—never truly still. Headlights danced in rows, and the evening breeze brushed gently against their faces. The sky wasn’t dark yet, caught in that golden pause between day and night—like the world holding its breath.
Tama lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then exhaled smoke in slow spirals. Raka leaned against the railing, watching his friend, silhouetted like a frame from a noir film—the neon glow brushing his cheek, freckles visible beneath sharp cheekbones.
“Remember when you first became CD?” Raka asked. “You said this job was just a stopover. You didn’t want to dive too deep. No attachments.”
“Still true.” Tama answered, eyes on the ember of his cigarette. “I believe in creativity, not commitment.”
“But now, every pitch you ask, ‘Is Reina joining?’ Every post-presentation, you look for her.”
Tama raised an eyebrow. “Maybe because she’s competent.”
“Or maybe because you’re curious. Because she’s not like the others. Because her silence makes you want to sit a little longer in a room you usually can’t wait to leave.”
Tama turned to him. His gaze had shifted—deeper now. Guarded.
“She’s not easy to figure out. Like a Rubik’s cube where all the colors are nearly the same. And that makes you want to learn how to bring one side into harmony.”
Raka smirked at the sky. “You scared?”
“Scared of what?”
“Scared that if you go too far, you’ll change. And not into the Tama you know.”
Tama let out a dry laugh. But there was a crack in it.
“I’m scared if I get close, she’ll just get hurt. I’m no healer, Rak. I only know how to leave.”
---
They fell silent. The breeze scattered the lingering smoke. From inside the office, a printer hummed faintly—reminding them that the world kept spinning, even when they paused.
“Remember when I broke things off with Icha?” Raka said suddenly.
Tama turned to him slowly.
“I thought I was tough. But when she left me for a guy who could give her ‘certainty,’ I… shattered. Quietly. No noise. I just… disappeared inside myself.”
Tama didn’t speak. He knew the story, but had never heard it said in that still, steady tone.
“That’s when I learned—not every wound has to be healed. Some pain just needs to be respected. And the only people who can do that… are the ones who choose to stay, even in silence.”
---
Tama took one last drag of his cigarette, flicked the ember off, and stood straighter.
“I don’t know what I am to Reina yet. But what I do know… is that I want to keep seeing her in the same room, scribbling legal notes that somehow read like poetic litigation.”
“And that, Tam,” Raka said, patting his shoulder, “is the beginning of the thread you swore you’d never want.”
They walked back inside. The office lights had dimmed. Computers hummed in sleep mode. But Tama’s steps felt heavier now—or maybe just more aware.
And on the screen behind his closed laptop, the sketchbook still lay open. On the last page, a new drawing had emerged.
A silhouette of a woman standing by a window. Not perfect, not detailed.
But sharp.
Still.
And captivating.
No strings, he’d said.
But even smoke leaves a trace in the air.
- Writer
